


礼

by clericalchar (selstarry)



Series: dues to the dead [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Gen, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Ruler/minister, featuring fake lore, where Hubert is very insistent on finishing what they started
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21817921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selstarry/pseuds/clericalchar
Summary: n.a ceremonya courtesya paying of respects
Relationships: Edelgard von Hresvelg & Hubert von Vestra
Series: dues to the dead [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1478990
Comments: 4
Kudos: 52





	礼

**Author's Note:**

> Finishing up an old WIP to complete the Adrestian Trio post-character-death set.
> 
> I was watching cutscenes and noticed that the crown Edelgard is declared emperor with is different from the headdress she normally wears. Inspiration for the related lore comes from an ancient Egyptian/Chinese/Greek myth/tradition mashup.

Edelgard bows her head for the War Crown of Adrestia for the last time on a morning much like the first time. Her chamber is warm with sunlight. From the distance rolls the murmur of a gathering crowd. Eyes closed, she sits very still before the mirror as her heart roils with accomplishment, anticipation, further ambitions. And the aching knowledge of the cost.

“Crimson for blood, iron blue for fortitude, gold for incorruptible purpose.” Hubert’s voice comes from behind her. He’d quoted those words the first time, as her red-gloved hands shook with the knowledge that they would grow redder yet. Today, he offers them to her again.

The Minister of the Imperial Household governs all the rites that consecrate the body of the Emperor. This is his day as much as it is hers.

Edelgard’s eyes prickle with a deep, bittersweet gratitude. She does not turn, allowing deft hands to pin her headdress over the hair coiled at either side of her head. “Ram’s horns for strength. The four-point motif for dominion over the four directions,” Hubert continues. His steady recitation lends her a strange calm, the same calm that had steadied her that other morning, as she stood before the assembled armies, and declared war on the Church of Seiros.

“A pearl over the third eye to shield sight from the illusions of deceivers. Pendent leaves under the ears to shield hearing from the speech of the unholy.” Her mouth attempts to twist wryly at that, and she hears a chuckle in response. “Believe as you wish, Your Majesty. Your subjects await.”

The leaves chime softly as she lifts her head. In the mirror, her golden horns frame empty air.

“Thank you,” Edelgard says, as she rises to her feet— 

The procession makes its circuit through the streets of Enbarr, Edelgard proud and straight-backed astride her mount at its head. Banners blaze in the sunlight, red as flame. The crowd roars around her like the sea. Flashes of upturned faces, triumph, adulation, hope.

She sees him now, in the corner of her eye, a familiar shadow on a black steed keeping steady pace at her side. 

She continues to fix her stare ahead. She knows the stories, the old superstitions that ran too deep for even the Church to uproot. If she turns her head to look, if she reaches her hand out to touch, she will be left with nothing. He will evaporate like dew under the gaze of the sun. He will slip through her fingers like the reflection of the moon in water.

Her hands clench around the reins with the effort of self-control. A glimpse is all she wants, to overwrite the last time she saw him, his face pale and still, his noctilucent eyes filmed to grey.

A glimpse, to sustain her for the rest of her years.

But half a lifetime ago, amid the ashes of their childhood, he had knelt in front of her and sworn an oath. Not the earlier oath of vassalage in the chapel, their fathers in attendance, the archaic wording memorized and rehearsed with their tutors. After their reunion, with none watching over him but her, he had sworn an oath of his own—that her path was his path, that her war was his war, that he would see it to the end. 

Even now, even now, he keeps faith. How can she who received his oath fail him?

She stares steadily ahead, toward the approaching Imperial Palace. It’s a familiar ride, a familiar road. It is, she knows, the last time he will accompany her.

Before, she measured her future in frugal units: the moments between the lift and fall of the blade, the minutes of a clandestine meeting. The months of a school year, the years of campaign. Now, she dreams in decades. The river of time has found its floodplain, on which she will nourish her empire.

A profusion of time. An embarrassment of time. No one from her past is left to share it. 

It occurs to her, these days, that she has lived longer as an only child than as a younger sister. It occurs to her that she may yet live longer without her shadow than with him.

“We both understood the cost from the start,” says Hubert. “And is this not worth the price?”

Oh, it is. No matter how deeply the ache sits within her. She did not start a war she didn’t mean.

“My emperor,” he says contentedly.

She dismounts at the palace steps for the ceremony, the changing of the crowns. It had been among the last items she had planned with Hubert. Centuries ago, the rite was performed by the archbishop; as the political winds shifted, the Minister of Religion took over the duty. Today, Byleth awaits her, with a retinue of not knights, but common healers.

For a moment, Byleth’s gaze lingers above Edelgard’s shoulder, before turning to her.

Edelgard bows her head, allowing deft hands to unpin the war crown from her hair. Accustomed to its weight, she fights lightheadedness as Byleth lifts each piece away.

“I will not need to fear for you,” says Hubert. “You have Ferdinand for peace and Byleth for war. Your path is clear.” 

And all she can say is, “Stay.” 

Hubert laughs, softly. “Leave me in the darkness where I belong. We will see each other again. But, I hope, not for many years.”

It might have been a brush of cool fingertips, lifting a stray wisp of her hair, to be pinned neatly under the descending High Crown of Adrestia. It might have been the breeze.

She turns, and the steps are empty between her and the crowd.


End file.
